The Attack
by Juliejuly
Summary: The four Inseparables help a village in need. It's all well and good ... until it isn't. A bit of d'Artagnan whump here.
1. Chapter 1

**A Musketeer fanfiction again! I can't help it, I just love those four too much. :) I'll be updating this every other day.**

 **Okay, here comes a big surprise: The Musketeers aren't mine!**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

The sun was big and hot, the bucket in my hands rusty and heavy. I was climbing the slope slowly, minding each of my dawdling steps. Our house was without question one of the most beautiful in the village, but it was also one of the most impractical. Climbing the hill it was positioned on ten times a day just to bring fresh water into the household was something I, along with my mom and my younger sister, could happily live without.

But I wasn't going to complain, much less in times like those when drunks, mercenaries and bandits were numerous, the brawls they brought with them even more so and people willing to help few and far between. Our house was at least a little ways up from the centre of the village, which made us the last targets of fights and usually gave us enough time to get to safety.

I walked on. The trees were tall and cast long shadows on the ground. The air was chilly. I wrapped my coat tightly around myself and glanced at the forest.

Something didn't seem quite right.

I stopped. I listened. I waited. The wind howled. Trees shook. And through that, through the assaulting chirp of the forest, I could hear hooves. Definitely. The sound was distinctive enough for me to be sure.

There weren't supposed to be any riders in these parts of the woods, were there?

Before I could move, a hand wrapped itself tightly around my mouth. My chest exploded in the sudden burst of energy my heart released in a series of strong thumps. The bucket slipped through my fingers and landed on the ground. Cold water spilled over my freezing legs, but I didn't notice. I squirmed and kicked, yet nothing seemed to work against the sheer power holding me.

And then there was a voice in my ear. "Shhh. It's okay. Be still. Be quiet."

I listened, even though I didn't know why.

The hands dragged me a few strong steps back, then pushed me behind a tree. And not a second too soon, because it was in that instant that a group of riders burst out of the dense bushes on our left, passed our hideout with booming hooves, and vanished in the trees on our right.

The stomping went further away, became quieter. The forest animals picked up their singing again. The serene was slowly reinstated and the hand around my mouth dropped away. It was all over as suddenly as it had begun, and it left me breathless and struggling with the question if any of it had happened at all.

"Phew. That was close," a masculine voice said behind me. I whirled around, my instincts on high alert. Sweat was running down my forehead in beads, my hands shaking from the stress. I couldn't bring up the will to care, though.

Was I going to have to fight? Was I going to be kidnapped? It could happen. It had most definitely happened before.

Standing in front of me was a tall man, his hair brown and his face pretty attractive. He smiled at me with white teeth and looked me up and down. I had to admit that the smile _was_ pretty comforting. "You okay?"

My heart calmed down a notch.

Before I could say anything, though, another voice flew over to us from deeper in the forest. "Aramis? Did you get him? Where the hell are you?"

"Here!"

Right. Of course he wasn't alone. People like him probably never were.

Three other men joined us. _Three._ I let my eyes roam over them. One was huge and bulky, seemingly strong enough to rip the sword he was holding apart with his bare hands. Next to him were two smaller guys, one older and one younger, one more sullen and gloomy, the other already smiling down on me with cheeky eyes. I immediately knew that that was the troublemaker of the group.

"It wasn't one of the bandits," the one who had pulled me behind the tree explained, waving his arms in my direction. "It's a _lady._ " He suggestively wiggled his eyebrows and I stared at him in shock, unable to wrap my head around the situation. To my defence, it _was_ a weird situation.

The young man with long, dark hair rolled his eyes. "Don't mind him," he said to me, drawing my attention to his face. He was handsome, too. All of them were, now that I thought about it. I felt my cheeks blush at the random notion and instantly hoped the gloom around us would be strong enough to hide the redness.

But the man didn't seem to mind at all. He went on without missing a beat. "In fact, don't mind any of them. This is Aramis. He will probably try to get you into bed. Don't listen to him, that is the best advice I can give you."

"Hey!" Aramis complained, but I was quicker.

" _Excuse me?!"_ I exclaimed, using my best outraged voice. It wasn't too difficult. I _was_ outraged, after all, among other things.

The man only shrugged, though. "Look, I'm just warning you." He turned to the big guy. "This is Porthos. He'll talk to you about our adventures. Don't believe everything he tells you."

"Oi!"

"And this is Athos. He probably won't talk at all. Don't worry, it's not you. It's him. He doesn't like … people."

As if to underline the statement, Athos only threw a toxic glare in the young guy's direction, but otherwise didn't say a thing. I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

"And you?"

"Oh, of course. D'Artagnan at your service. We are of the king's Musketeers."

"You're _Musketeers_?" My heart skipped another beat, then started thrumming again as if it had gone mad. "You're here all the way from Paris?"

The man, d'Artagnan, nodded. He pointed in the vague direction in which the riders had vanished. "We overheard some bandits planning to attack this village, and decided to follow them. Give them a run for their money, right?"

My eyes went wide. "When are they attacking?"

"We don't know."

I looked at them, searched their faces for a reaction, for fear or nervousness or _anything,_ but it just wasn't there. They were used to this, I reminded myself. It was their job to fight and be scared for their lives. But it wasn't their job to help every village in trouble, was it? They were there to protect the king and not every commoner in need. That was at least what I had been taught.

"And you're here to help?" I squeezed out finally, trying to keep the scepticism hidden.

"We sure are, Madame," Aramis answered from my left. He smiled at me. "Those bandits have been causing quite a bit of trouble here, have they not?"

I nodded and looked at the ground. "Yes. Yeah, they have. But no one ever listened to us. No one ever came to help."

Aramis winked. "Well, here we are."

"You're not enough." The words were out of my mouth before I knew what was happening. I nervously pursed my lips and timidly peeked up at them, but they didn't look angry in the least. If anything, they only seemed amused.

"I … I didn't –"

"Well, well," Aramis chirped. "Someone needs a little faith, don't they?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. It's just … there are a lot of bandits."

The big man named Porthos joined the conversation for the first time. "That's okay. We've won against worse odds."

I pointed at d'Artagnan. "That one said I shouldn't believe everything you say."

"That you can believe," the oldest one put an end to it just as naturally as the king would have stopped an argument at court. Athos, I recalled. This was Athos. He seemed serious and trustworthy. He seemed a man of his word. "Madame, could you maybe show us the way to the nearest inn?"

"Yes. No. I mean, where are my manners? Come with me. Mother is just preparing lunch. You should join us."

"We don't want to intrude –" Athos started, but Porthos was already pushing him out of the way and shushing him in the process.

"We would love to," he said, his eyes glinting. "Have I told how hungry I am?"

" _Yes,"_ d'Artagnan teased, seemingly exaggerated, yet a grin was playing around his full lips. "About ten times in as many minutes. Seriously, Porthos, you should get your stomach in check."

"Oi! _You_ don't get to talk! You stole half my breakfast today!"

"I was trying to help you get in form. Since I stay lean –"

" _Have you just called me fat?"_

"I wouldn't dream of it."

But it was too late. Porthos had run toward the young man and scooped him up, then slung him over his broad shoulders like a sack of potatoes. D'Artagnan cried out, immediately starting to beg for the burly guy to put him down. I merely rolled my eyes – they were acting like five-year-old children and they were going to save my village from a _group of bandits?_ – and started leading the remaining Musketeers up the hill toward my house. The other two would find their way well enough.

* * *

Ever since I could remember, I had always been taught never to interact with strangers. Bringing one home was still a whole different category, not to mention bringing home _four,_ which was why it wasn't the least bit surprising when Father jumped up from his chair as soon as we entered our house, and greeted the newcomers with a cold glare.

"What is this?" he inquired. He glanced at me for the shortest of moments. "Where's the water?"

"I dropped it."

"What is this?" he repeated.

Athos stepped forward. In the short time of knowing the four men, I had quickly concluded that he had to be their leader. Besides being the oldest, he was also the only one who seemed to have any kind of competence.

"We are Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan of the king's Musketeers. We have come here with news. A group of bandits are planning to attack your village, sir, and we want to help."

Father looked them over, his stare calculating and piercing. I shrunk into myself. Mother cooked on and Marie, my little sister, continued peeling her peas. We had learnt not to interrupt Father when he was in such a mood.

"Why should I believe you?"

They were all happy to let Athos explain. "I am afraid you have no choice but to trust us, sir."

"Why would you want to help?"

"Why would we want to deceive you in such a way?"

Father thought. He eyed all four of them musingly, and then again. The silence dragged before he nodded to himself and seemed to reach a conclusion. "Very well. When are they going to attack?"

"We are not sure," Athos answered, "but we suppose that it is going to be tonight."

"How do you know this?"

"We have been watching them prepare. They have been working restlessly for days now, but today they appear to be finished. The only logical conclusion we can draw from that –"

"Is that they are ready." Father nodded once more, this time to everyone around. "We don't have much time, then. Let's move."


	2. Chapter 2

Since Father was an important man, it didn't take long for him to convince the whole village of the nearing danger. A commotion began, one that was already organised from the numerous times we had gone through it before, but was now supervised by four pairs of eyes belonging to trained soldiers.

It was spooky how quickly the Musketeers' demeanour had changed. In the short period of time it had taken to get the village moving, they had grown from obnoxious children into honourable men who knew exactly what they were doing, what they were aiming for and how they were going to achieve it. There was never any question behind any of their decisions. There was never a waver in their voice, never a moment of thought before they gave an answer to a query of one of the villagers.

I could see it now. I could see how they had made it into the ranks of the Musketeers and why King Louis XIII deemed them worthy of being his guard. Why he _needed_ them. But I could also see that the jokes and the silliness were part of the package. It was how they dealt with the pain, with the things they had seen and done. It was how they separated work from pleasure, colleagues from friends.

Before, in the forest, they had been friends. Now they were colleagues. They always knew what the other three were going to do, knew how to act so they would be acting in unison. They knew exactly how to move, were always aware where the others were standing.

I could see that much. It was pretty obvious.

Time passed and a plan was slowly forming; a plan that resembled all the previous ones, but was different in one essential point. This time, we weren't going for defence. This time, we had trained soldiers on our side – this time we were going for the kill. To stop this madness once and for all. To scare the bandits away with the message to never return. To finally live in peace.

We had a hideout not far away at the foot of the mountains. It was nothing more than a simple cave, but it was a well-hidden cave that was hard to find and even harder to storm, since its entrance was a hole just big enough for a grown man to drop through and not nearly wide enough for an army to come charging in. Women, children and elders were supposed to go there and hide while every able man who had the will and courage would join the fight.

I listened to my father's commanding voice with one ear while saddling a horse, until his baritone suddenly climbed in volume as well as anger and I quickly went to see if I could resolve the situation.

The four Musketeers and a few important men from our village were standing in a circle. The soldiers noticed me immediately, their vigilant eyes never letting a single detail escape. If the others knew of my presence, they didn't show it.

"We need every sword we have," my father stated heatedly, waving around wildly with his hands. He was expressive like that. He liked to use his limbs when talking. I wouldn't have needed to hear his words to know vaguely what the conversation was about.

"We also need to protect the women and children, sir. It is the safest way, believe me." That was Athos. He was collected and calm, as always.

"They will be _safe._ No one is ever going to find the cave."

Now also d'Artagnan jumped in. "Sir, if I may. We have seen many fights. We know how these things work. The easiest way to get a man to cooperate is having his wife and child at gunpoint. Attackers always try to locate the women and children if they have the feeling they are losing."

"They won't _find_ them," Father repeated. "I can't spare any of my men. We are few as it is."

"How many bandits are there?" Athos changed the topic. "We have only seen about thirty."

" _Only_? You have a weird perception of the world, Monsieur."

"How many men are willing to fight?" Athos continued, his face blank. I was beginning to believe that nothing could possibly faze him.

"Twenty, maybe. Look, we are a small village. Besides, we are just that – a village. It might be hard for you to imagine, but we are no fighters, not like you. Many of us prefer to flee the danger to jumping into it."

"And we understand that," Athos concurred. "Twenty men are enough to take on the thirty bandits. You have us. Let a few men go with the women and children. Give them swords and guns. Have them at the ready."

" _No._ " There was an edge to Father's voice and I knew it wasn't just about the men anymore. It was about his honour. He wasn't going to cave, not now. He wasn't going to give Athos right. He was going to be his stubborn self till the end and he was going to prove that he still had some say in the matter, even if that killed someone.

"Fine. If you won't spare your men, I'll spare mine. D'Artagnan, go with the women."

The boy's brow creased. " _Athos._ You can't be serious. I want to help."

"And you will. By protecting the women."

Father's jaw was as tight as a brick. I had no doubt at all that I could have broken a stone on it at that moment. He knew he'd lost. By sending d'Artagnan with us, he was losing a _trained_ soldier on the battlefield, a soldier who could probably kill a lot more bandits than any of the farmers living in the village. He couldn't just _command_ the Musketeer to fight – the four men were way over his rank. But he also couldn't refuse the order and let three untrained farmers join us in the cave as protection, because – well, that would have meant backing down.

"Fine," he ground out through clenched teeth. "As you wish." He stormed off and there was not a single doubt in my mind that he would have killed Athos, Musketeer or not, if the man hadn't agreed to help the village.

I looked at d'Artagnan who looked at his leader. "Athos, I really want to fight."

"Look, sometimes you have to place strategy before numbers. You know that. Head over heart. Always."

Porthos snorted. "Oh, give the pup a break, will ya? Look, d'Artagnan, all I can do is promise that I'll kill a few extra in your name."

"As will I," Aramis solemnly agreed.

"You're buffoons, you know that?" Athos grumbled as he walked away.

* * *

We were a huge sea of people moving toward the mountains. Well, we weren't really _that_ many, a hundred maybe, but the crowd still seemed endless if you were caught in the middle of it.

I spotted d'Artagnan walking at the back, looking around. He was vigilant – the only one, it seemed. Everyone else was just staring at the ground or at the mountains we were approaching, hoping to reach safety as soon as possible.

I let myself fall back. "Hello again," I said as I started walking next to the Musketeer. "I hear you don't want to be here."

I expected a joke, a quick retaliation to a haunting comment, but his lips merely tightened into a white line. "It's not that I don't want to be _here._ I just …"

"You want to be _there_ ," I finished for him, nodding. He looked at me, his eyebrows raised. "It's obvious," I told him.

"And how is that?"

"You're obviously tight friends with those other three. It was easy to see. You ... well, let's say you get along pretty well."

He smiled a faint smile lined with worry and a touch of annoyance. He opened his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it.

"What if something happens to them, right? What if you're not there to save them?"

"How do you _know_ that?"

I shrugged. "My father's there, too, remember? I thought you must be feeling pretty much the same as me."

He brushed the issue aside. "Your father will be fine."

"As will your friends."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"Why not?"

"They tend to protect others with their own lives. They will die before they let anything happen to your father."

I sighed. "Maybe you give them too much credit."

He looked at me, his eyes honest and open. I knew in that instant that if he were to lie, it would show. But I also knew that he wouldn't lie to me, not in that moment. His eyes were conveying something too deep to put into words.

"I don't think I am," he finally said. "They are good men. The best I have ever met."

He fell silent. We walked for another hour, then stopped at the entrance of the cave. It was already getting dark. We crawled into the cave, one by one, and sat down next to each other. The space was tight, but there was enough room for everyone. Once settled, we waited.

When it got dark, we heard first noises in the distance. Steel met steel. A few shots rang out. It was all just the way the Musketeers had predicted.

The fight began, and we were hiding.


	3. Chapter 3

**Oh, I forgot to mention: I was originally planning to update this every other day, but I kinda changed my mind and I'm updating daily. Just so you know. ;) Thanks for all the reviews and follows!**

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It didn't take long for people to start getting suspicious. We all knew the situation was dire, and the mood was not necessarily improved by the cave's slick walls or by the forced proximity of the person next to you. The air was humid and stale. We all felt enclosed, caught in a tight cage of no escape while our friends and loved ones were fighting to the death.

People's characters tend to show themselves in their worst light in situations like that.

Andre was the first to speak up. He was our neighbour and Marie always joked that he had a thing for me. I didn't believe that, not by a long shot, but he was normally a nice enough fellow with a few good jokes stashed away under his sandy hair.

Not so tonight, though, it seemed. Still too young and inexperienced with a sword, he wasn't out there fighting, but rather in here, hiding with women, children and elders. I wondered how much that bothered him, or if it bothered him at all. If it had been me, it would have.

He cleared his throat and said, "How do we know you're actually a Musketeer?" His voice drowned out the indistinct murmurs and chats around us, and made them go quiet instantly. The cave stilled and waited patiently for the soldier to speak.

D'Artagnan, who had just been inspecting the entrance of the cave for danger, plopped back to the ground with a sigh. He seemed tired of the question, tired of always having to explain himself.

"And who else would I be?" he queried half-heartedly, looking down at his lap.

Andre frowned. "You tell me! For all we know, you could be a bandit yourself. You could have led us into a trap."

The Musketeer rolled his eyes. It had to be hard, I mused, to have had dedicated your life to helping others and to always have your competence questioned. But then again, that probably wasn't the hardest part of the job.

"If I were a bandit and I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't have done it this way. Too much effort. Too little gain."

"Are you saying you've thought about it?" Andre pushed.

"I have never thought about attacking an innocent village, if that's what you're asking," d'Artagnan retorted coolly. "But I _am_ trained in tactics, and this is a pretty easy decision. Someone who is cruel enough to slay women and children for his cause isn't going to give them the dignity of a fight before their death. He is going to come at night so no one sees him. He is going to burn down the houses and vanish before anyone knows what's happening. He is going to put as little effort into the killing as possible, because a monster like that doesn't care how he kills, just that he reaches his goal."

"How do you knowthat?"

D'Artagnan looked at him lazily, almost as if bored with the conversation. Maybe he was. Or maybe he was just hiding something else behind the carelessness. "I've dealt with men like that before. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about."

"I still don –"

"Psst." The Musketeers suddenly sat upright, his whole body conveying a deep sense of vigilance. I felt myself stiffen in reaction, and saw a few people do the same. There was something about the soldier that gave him power over us. I was sure that, should it come down to it, we would follow his every command. Probably because he knew what he was doing while we … well, didn't.

"Did you just –"

"I said be quiet!" d'Artagnan barked and this time, no one dared to disobey.

I didn't hear anything for a long while except for my heart, beating painfully against my ribcage. D'Artagnan's ears were probably a hundred times more accurate than mine, tuned carefully to pick out every and any sound that wasn't supposed to be there. He stared at the hole in deep concentration, everything around him seemingly forgotten.

Finally, I could hear them, too. Heavy boots against the ground. It was more than one pair, but I couldn't say anything else than that.

D'Artagnan had obviously heard enough. With flailing arms he beckoned us farther away from the hole, to the far back of the cave. We all listened without a single word, so that he was the only one standing by the entrance in the end. A single man given the task to protect a hundred. A single man standing between us and the mercy of merciless men.

But this was his job, I reminded myself. He knew what he was doing.

All eyes were on him. I was sure of that. Yet he didn't know or didn't mind. He soundlessly drew his sword, his knees bent, and waited for the first bandit to jump in.

He didn't have to wait long. Two dark legs landed on the cold, bitter floor. Thankfully, the bandits would only be able to come in and approach one at a time, which would give d'Artagnan a badly needed advantage and all of us a bigger shot at survival. Or that was what I hoped.

The Musketeer didn't wait around for the fight to start. But neither did the bandit. Steel met steel and the clang reverberated through the cave. They fought. The bandit was skilled, but he was nowhere near d'Artagnan's rank. Even _I_ could see that and I was as much a stranger to fighting as a person could possibly be. The Musketeer's moves were powerful and quick, but at the same time fluid, as if they were only one single motion – which I didn't believe they were, because the man manoeuvred this way and that, trying to keep the larger man off balance. It was all over after only a few minutes, when the Musketeer drove his sword through the bandit's stomach and the man collapsed where he was standing.

But that was not the end for d'Artagnan, because the next bandit was already waiting in line. They fought, d'Artagnan won, and moved on to the next one. And then the next. Their numbers seemed never-ending.

If nothing before had been, this was the last bit of proof that we were dealing with an actual soldier. His movements were like second nature. He fought with finesse, with a sickening beauty that brought death. He was _powerful,_ the way he toyed with a man's life, the way he decided a man's faith. He seemed powerful and unreal, whirling around this way and that, finishing off one bandit after the other without ever appearing to tire.

But it was impossible not to tire, wasn't it?

After about the fourth downed man, I detected first signs of exhaustion. There was sweat gathered on d'Artagnan's brow, and his mouth opened and closed together with his gasping breaths. Even so, he got the upper hand and won the fight again. _Five down._ There couldn't be many more left.

Still, it was bound to fail sooner rather than later. The next bandit got through d'Artagnan's defences, but instead of killing the boy – which he probably couldn't have accomplished quite so easily after all –, he stormed past him and toward us. My lungs constricted as he grabbed a random person which turned out to be –

"Mother!" I breathed, shooting up from my seated position. The bandit glanced at me and sneered, the sword in his hand glinting silvery in the light of the moon.

"Don't say another word or yer Mom's goin' to get it."

I swallowed and closed my mouth. I told myself to freaking _breathe_ , but found the task harder and harder as the seconds ticked by.

Meanwhile, d'Artagnan had inspected the hole. He looked mildly surprised as he turned back to the bandit. "You're the last one," he stated.

The bandit laughed. "Wouldn't you like that? Nah, I have a lot of friends back in the village."

"I'm not worried about those. See, I _also_ have friends back in the village. They are going to win."

"Yer pretty confident, aren't ya? Ye'll see how far that gets ya."

The Musketeer laughed a bitter laugh. I levelled my stare on him, unable to comprehend the gesture in the middle of such tragedy.

"And how far will threatening women and children get _you_?"

"Desperate times, ma friend. Desperate measures. Ya know the drill." The bandit's voice was as cool as the stone surrounding us. I shivered, and I didn't think it had to do with the temperature, but I couldn't be quite sure anymore. Maybe it had to do with _everything._

"Okay." D'Artagnan looked the man in the eyes. "What do you want me to do?"

"You'll surrender, of course," the bandit ordered. "Put your sword on the ground. Slide it over. Slowly."

I watched anxiously. Would the Musketeer really be willing to give his sword in order to save one life?

I should have known he would be. I should have known he would be willing to give much more than that.

D'Artagnan put his weapon down carefully and I watched as he pushed it over the rocky ground toward my mother. All eyes were on the weapon, including the bandit's, which was exactly what d'Artagnan had been counting on, I suppose.

Only fractions of a second later, he himself dove after his weapon and reclaimed it in a fluid motion, then charged the bandit head on. His adversary was frozen for a moment, which gave the Musketeer a much needed advantage. He dove forward, sword at the ready, and ripped my mother out of the bandit's lax arms, then engaged the weapon pointed at him and beat it to the ground. The bandit was impaled in a matter of seconds, but he was still breathing when the Musketeer turned to inspect my mother.

He wasn't counting on the dagger, though.

It had been hidden in the bandit's sleeve. It flew through the air with a whistle, directly in Mother's direction. I started to run, started to shout even though I knew I was too far away.

Someone jumped, someone screamed. The dagger buried itself deep into flesh and blood started pouring.


	4. Chapter 4

Time stilled.

I screamed for my mother, but if any words came over my lips at all, I didn't hear them. I ran across the cave, pushed people aside, fought my way through the crowd until I was next to her. The bandit was lying on the floor, motionless, his eyes staring unseeingly into the distance – a distance that didn't even exist in this enclosed space. But he wasn't important. I wanted to punch him, I wanted to scream at him, to hurt him, to bring him back to life – but that wasn't important. I pushed the feelings aside.

"Mother!" I called, my throat already raspy and burning from the abuse. "Mother." But she didn't look at me. Instead she crouched down, engaged in something I couldn't place.

" _Mother!_ "

And I stopped and looked over her shoulder.

She was _fine._

She was bloody, yes. But the dagger wasn't sticking out of her body.

D'Artagnan had leaned against the cave wall and slowly slid down to the ground. Mother bowed down low over his head. She inspected the dagger in his stomach with a composed expression, as if nothing of importance had happened. As if she hadn't almost died only minutes before.

"It's in deep," she stated coolly. I recalled that she had been a nurse once upon a time, but that had been long ago and I knew for a fact that she hadn't practiced the art of healing for at least as long as I could remember. Yet in that moment, she could have been a physician if I hadn't known any better.

D'Artagnan chuckled bitterly. "I know," he bit out through stiff lips.

"I can't pull it out now. You could bleed out."

"I know," he repeated. "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Mother rolled her eyes. "Why do men have to be so damn stubborn?"

"I'm not stubborn."

"Of course not." She got up and finally, _finally_ turned to me. Her bloody face looked drained and wrinkled – older than it had before. Her dull blue eyes locked with mine for the shortest of moments and she nodded.

She was fine. She didn't spare me any words, but at least she was letting me know that she was fine.

I exhaled a breath I hadn't noticed I'd been holding. Mother didn't notice, though. She was already addressing everyone around.

"I need space!" she called, her voice booming and echoing off the bare walls. "He needs to lie down."

"I _don't –_ "

My mother simply stopped the Musketeer by raising a hand. "Don't start with me. I was once a nurse."

I thought I heard him mutter "Great," under his breath, but it could just as well have been my imagination.

"How can I help?" I asked Mother. She looked me up and down, then nudged her head in his direction.

"Go talk to him. Try to keep his mind off the injury until I can give him something for the pain."

And she was gone. Where to, I had no idea. Why, I knew even less. The crowd just swallowed her up and I was alone, without any clue as to how to act.

"I'm fine, you know," d'Artagnan stated from beside me and I faced him. Right, I had to concentrate on him, keep him in the present. I smiled lightly and sat down next to him, my back to the wall.

"Of course you are."

"Why do all of you sound so sceptical?"

"Oh, well, I can only speak for myself here, but I think it may have something to do with the dagger in your gut."

He regarded me through narrowed eyes. "That's something … ah, never mind."

I quirked an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing, just …" he sighed. "You just sounded like Aramis for a second there."

"Aramis …" I pretended to think, even though I already knew which one of the Musketeers we were talking about. "That's the one who saved me, right?"

"Saved you?"

"Yeah, from the horsemen in the forest."

"Oh." D'artagnan nodded and leaned his head back against the stone. His eyes closed, but I knew he was still awake. "Yeah, that's him."

"And now you've saved my mother."

"Yes."

I was silent and he was, too. I bit my lip. Something was bothering me, something deep and aching, but I didn't quite know what it was until it burst out of my mouth.

"Do you ever get anything in return?"

One of his eyes peeled open to a slit and turned lazily in my direction. "For what?"

"For saving others."

"What would we get in return?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Money?"

He chuckled. Of all the things he could have done – saying yes, saying no, cursing his luck, cursing his job, whatever – he chuckled. But it seemed to somehow aggravate his injury, because his breath hitched and his eyes closed as his face contorted into an image of pain.

"No," he said breathlessly once he had found his bearings again. "If you want to be rich, you don't become a Musketeer. That's common knowledge."

"Why do you do it, then?"

He was silent for so long that I was sure he wasn't going to answer at all. Had I offended him? But then he sighed, shook his head and looked down at his bloody hands that were desperately trying to staunch the bleeding. They didn't seem all that successful, though. There was so much _red._

I swallowed heavily and had to look away.

"It's just what we do," came his silent answer.

And I knew that that explanation, as unsatisfactory as it seemed, was all he could give me. It carried an unimaginable weight. It conveyed so much more than the simple meaning of the few words.

Helping people was what they did. Helping people was what they lived for. There was no other reason but their personal wish to do it, nothing else to say on the matter. It was that simple, and that complicated.

Mother returned shortly after with a cloth in her hand and a bottle of something that smelled suspiciously of alcohol.

"Hold this," she told me and pushed the bottle into my hands. She stepped over to d'Artagnan and kneeled down beside him.

"I'm going to try and clean the wound as best I can," she told him. "It'll hurt, but it should help. Then we can only hope that infection doesn't set in."

The Musketeer merely nodded, apparently too weary to talk. Mother gave me the cloth and collected the bottle. She got in position next to d'Artagnan.

"Ready?"

She didn't wait for the whispered "Yes"; she simply poured the foul-smelling liquid over the open wound. D'Artagnan's eyes flew open. His jaws clenched to stifle a scream. His lips started bleeding from somewhere where his teeth had bitten into them. It was a sight I had never witnessed before; his face might have even looked comical if taken out of context, but under the circumstances it only looked cruel.

Mother was quick. She threw the bottle aside, let it roll away, forgotten. Her outstretched hand was already demanding the cloths I was holding, and I carefully placed them in her palm. She arranged the cloth around the knife and pushed down.

"Hold here," she instructed me and I moved closer. "Don't let go."

I pushed. Blood spilled from under the cloth. There was _a lot_ of blood. Almost more than I could stomach. But I swallowed the uneasiness down and forced myself to ignore what I was doing, how much pain I was inflicting. I was helping, after all.

D'Artagnan didn't seem all that coherent anymore. His eyes were half lidded, his head rolling around on the stone, lolling this way and that. Mother patted his cheek lightly, but still with enough force to get his attention.

"Hey. Look at me. That's it. I'm sorry, this is all I can do for now. Once we get out of here, I will take care of you."

D'Artagnan smiled tiredly. "Once we get out of here, Aramis will take care of me."

"Who's Aramis?" Mother wondered, though if she was actually interested or if she just wanted to keep the patient awake and talking was beyond me. D'Artagnan didn't say anything; he simply shrugged and turned his head the other way.

"He's one of the Musketeers," I explained therefore.

Mother seemed surprised. "And he's trained in healing?"

"Best medic I know," d'Artagnan said proudly. "Saved my life more times than I care to remember."

His eyes drooped after that, his shoulders slumped. His whole body looked spent beyond belief. I wanted to say something, wanted to keep him awake, but Mother laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and subtly shook her head.

"He has to be exhausted. Blood loss will do that to you. And since there's nothing wrong with his head – except maybe that his survival instinct got lost somewhere in that huge void where his brain should to be –"

" _Mother."_

"What?"

"He saved your life. No need to get offensive."

"I am just stating the obvious, dear. That's not normal, jumping in front of a knife like that. There are many people who like to help others, but those are normally conscious decisions. Instincts, though – instincts are supposed to keep us alive, not make us jump right in the line of death."

"You could just be grateful, you know."

"I am," she stated immediately, without a moment of thought. She sighed. "God, I am. Which doesn't make this any easier. He has a hard recovery ahead of him."

"But he _will_ recover, right?"

She looked sadly at the slumped form of the Musketeer. "I'm afraid that's up to him. And infection."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello! Thank you for all the great reviews! I hope you enjoy this next chapter. :)**

* * *

D'Artagnan didn't sleep for long. The pain obviously wouldn't let him. The next time he woke, Mother and I carefully moved him into a lying position, hoping that this way he would be a bit more comfortable. He laid his arm over his eyes, which efficiently concealed his face from my curious looks, but I could still tell that sleep was evading him.

I stayed up with him. With time, it became quieter in the cave. Some people nodded off, some kept silent vigil. Mother herself stated that she was too tired to keep her eyes open any longer, and went to catch up on a few hours of needed rest.

"I'm fine, you know?" d'Artagnan muttered after I'd been staring at him for a while, lost in thought. "You can sleep. I won't die or anything if that's what you're scared of."

I blushed. "I know. I just want to stay awake a little longer, that's all."

"Fine. Suit yourself."

We had a church in our village, but with no one to ring the bells I had no clue what time it was. Minutes slipped into hours. I leaned against the stone wall and watched d'Artagnan breathe, cherished every up and down of his bloody chest. Every movement was one more moment he was alive. One more moment I wouldn't have to witness someone dying.

After an undefined while, mother re-joined us. The sun was already slowly creeping over the horizon at that point, a scarlet strip at the edge of the world. Mother quietly kneeled down beside her patient, but her question was directed at me.

"How is he?"

Before I could answer, d'Artagnan already spoke up, his voice raspy and hoarse. " _He_ is right here. And he's fine."

"Have you slept at all?" Mother marvelled.

The Musketeer merely shrugged, so I jumped in for him. "No, Mother. He hasn't. I think he's in too much pain."

"I'm _fine."_

"For God's sake, stop being such a damn fool!" Mother exploded. "Don't you think this is hard enough? I'm trying to help you, so stop acting like I'm torturing you. Stop acting like you would rather be anywhere else. It makes me feel horribly unwelcome."

His Adam's apple moved up and down as he swallowed. Twice. Then his head bobbed quickly in a curt nod. His arm was still draped over his eyes so I couldn't see his expression, but I was pretty sure that deep down somewhere he looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Madame. I'm just not used to situations like this."

Mother huffed. "You're telling _me_! I have a husband, remember? And I had seven brothers. Men are a weird group of people who always have to be in control. But sometimes you need help, too, understand?"

"Yes, Madame."

"Good. Now try and get some rest. I'm hoping we get out of this soon." She sat down beside me. Now there were two pairs of eyes watching the Musketeer's every breath. He already opened his mouth to say something about it, but then obviously thought better of it and let his lips close without uttering a word.

My thoughts started drifting. They spilled all over the place. My brain was obviously overworked and tired, and tried to make up for the lack of sleep with daydreams. It was going to be a _long_ day, I thought.

* * *

I was startled back to attention by voices. Looking around, I realised that no one around me was talking. Not anymore.

The cave had fallen into a deep, deep silence. No one even dared to breathe. D'Artagnan stayed the way he was, but his shoulders were tenser than just moments ago, his head turned slightly in the direction of the entrance. His arm was still resting on his face, but it was taut, ready, and I had no doubt at all that should it come down to it, the Musketeer would get up and fight any potential danger again, the dagger in his gut be damned.

Fortunately, it didn't come to that. Someone said, "Ow," and d'Artagnan relaxed, obviously recognizing the voice instantly.

"Stop, Aramis, you've already reset it. Let it be."

"I'll let it be when I'm satisfied with it, Porthos. You've had your arm dislocated. It's gonna hurt whether I'm doing something to it or not."

"Oh, come on. Look at Athos! Examine 'im! 'e's all bloody and stuff."

"As I have stated before, the blood is not mine," a third voice joined. That was Athos. At the edge of my vision, I noticed d'Artagnan relaxing even more.

So that had been bothering him. It hadn't been just the pain or the blood loss. While I had, in the face of our own little adventure, almost forgotten about the other battle taking place, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about what had happened to his friends. Now he finally knew that they were safe.

It was silent for a few moments. Then I recognised Father's call.

"Hello?"

Mother was on her feet immediately. "We're here!"

Two heavy boots landed on the ground and Father was suddenly staring down on us. He took in the blood, the slumped figure of the Musketeer, the startled expressions of the people surrounding him and lastly Mother's dirty form. He rushed to her, put his hands on her shoulders and asked forcefully, "Where are you hurt?"

"I'm not," Mother reassured and smiled at him comfortingly. She obviously wanted to say something more, but before she could even open her mouth, a grunt came from behind Father's back.

"Damn. Whose idea was it to use this cave? Would be easier to –" Porthos's form stilled. His eyes locked on the person lying on the ground and he rushed forward, pushing my parents aside. "D'Artagnan?!" His cry reverberated off the walls and made the whole cave shake with tiny tremors.

"I'm okay, Porthos. I'm fine."

"The hell you are." Porthos turned raging eyes on the rest of us. "What the _hell_ happened to him?!"

Seemingly summoned by their friend's agitation, the next two people jumping into the cave were none other than Aramis and Athos. They were all bloody and worn out, but other than Porthos's dislocated shoulder that had – if the sling around his neck was anything to go by – already been taken care of, I couldn't detect any serious injuries. The lighting wasn't the best, though, and I was far from a medic.

Porthos stepped aside so that Aramis could access their injured friend in the narrow space. But the burly man's gaze was still on us, demanding an answer. Of course it was Mother who presented it to him, together with her usual attitude.

"I do not like the way you are talking to me, young man. As if it were our fault that he got injured. Bandits came charging in and he was stabbed in the stomach."

Porthos's eyes settled on my mother's face. The fire seemed to cool a little. He bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Of course, Madame. I didn't mean to insult anyone. I am sorry."

"You better be." With that, my mother collected her skirts and purposefully marched over to Aramis who had already undone the makeshift bandage and was studying the wound intensely.

"I tried to clean the gash," Mother explained, "but I didn't have the right utensils to get the knife out. I hope the alcohol kept infection away, though."

Aramis nodded. "You did a nice job. Thank you."

"Nothing to thank for." She waved off. "You know, he saved my life. Brave thing he did. Stupid, but brave."

"I heard that," d'Artagnan mumbled from under his arm.

"You were supposed to." My mother sighed. "I'll let you to it, then." She turned to Porthos. "Is it safe to go out now?"

The big man shrugged, his full attention already back with his wounded comrade. "Safe as it'll ever be."

"Good." Without another word, Mother left the cave, followed by a stream of people. Everyone looked at the downed Musketeer in passing, and everyone nodded to him respectfully. There were no exceptions.

* * *

The knife clattered to the ground and d'Artagnan gasped, then held his breath completely. I saw him bite down on the cloth his friends had placed between his teeth. His eyes bulged. Porthos and Athos pressed down on his arms and legs to stop him from flailing and hurting himself further. Aramis poured a bit of alcohol over the wound.

It was a well-practiced routine. Too well-practiced. I tried to imagine how much pain and suffering these men had been through but found that my brain couldn't even conjure up the thought. It was all I could do to stare and wait.

After the first few seconds, d'Artagnan's breaths returned, filling the quiet with their shaky presence. His body started shaking. Aramis pushed a fresh cloth against the weeping wound. When d'Artagnan's eyes began to roll back, the medic was already tapping his sweaty cheek, gentle but demanding.

"No. No, hey. D'Artagnan, stay with me. Stay with me. Hey."

It didn't help. D'Artagnan's head dropped back against the stone, his eyes closed.

"Damn it."

Athos and Porthos released whatever limb they had been holding, and looked at Aramis questioningly. "What now?"

The medic shrugged. "We wait."

It didn't take long for the form on the ground to stir anew. Aramis was immediately tapping d'Artagnan's face again, talking to him encouragingly. Porthos, on the other hand, just asked, "D'Artganan?" a single time.

He got an answer.

"Here."

They all grinned, the gesture relieved and worried at the same time, happy and sad, angry and grateful. Porthos brushed a soaked lock off d'Artagnan's sweaty brow.

"You're going to be fine, Whelp."

"Stop _calling …_ me that."

Athos smiled sourly. "He's fine."

"We have to get him somewhere more comfortable," Aramis stated. That was my cue.

"Come with me. I am sure Mother is already expecting us."

"We wouldn't want to intrude," Aramis reasoned. "Your mother has done enough for us as it is and she hasn't even invited us."

I nodded. "She's like that. She doesn't say such things, she rather expresses them with gestures. She wouldn't have left us here the way she did if she weren't expecting to see us at the house later. She wanted to give you space, but now you have to come with me. She is going to insist that you stay with us until d'Artagnan is well enough to travel home. And she can be quite insistent."

Aramis glanced at me, his eyebrow quirked. "Women. So peculiar."

I smiled at him, my first genuine gesture in a while. "Funny. That's exactly what she says about men."


	6. Chapter 6

D'Artagnan insisted on walking on his own. Athos and Aramis helped him to his feet, while Porthos draped the younger man's lean arm over his broad shoulders and kept him from falling back down. D'Artagnan scrunched up his face and slouched over, but didn't make a single sound.

The hardest part was getting the injured man through the entrance. The three Musketeers were careful as they worked, as gentle as men of their built could possibly be.

The walk home was a slow and tiring process. D'Artagnan limped his way over the grass, leaning on Porthos's shoulder and relying on the big man's help more and more. When we reached our house, he looked beyond spent.

Mother threw one look his way and frowned. "You're not supposed to be walking around!" she complained, but she didn't comment further. Instead, she led the men up the stairs and to one of our two spare bedrooms.

When we stopped in front of the door, d'Artagnan had finally had enough. His legs gave up on him and he would have landed in a heap on the floor if Porthos's strong arms hadn't caught him and carefully pressed him against his chest. The big man half carried, half dragged d'Artagnan's limp form to the bed.

"I left bandages, a fresh shirt and something for the pain on the nightstand," Mother explained to no one in particular. "The sheets on the bed are fresh and the blanket is warm. It should suffice, but if it doesn't, there are additional blankets and pillows in that cupboard. Once you're done working on him, you can go sleep in the other spare bedroom; there are two more beds in there. Do with them what you like."

Athos took off his hat and nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Madame. We are in your dept."

Mother rolled her eyes. "Just don't ruin my carpet and I'll call us even."

The door clicked silently behind her as she left the room.

Porthos took off d'Artagnan's boots and lay the man gently on the bed. Aramis immediately got to work. He took off d'Artagnan's shirt (naturally, I looked away and pretended not to notice the tight muscles under the pale skin) and started cleaning away the blood. "Athos, try to wake him up," the medic ordered without looking up from his task.

I felt like I was intruding on a very private moment, so I slowly backed away and out the door. I had been lurking around ever since the battle had ended. I had to give them some space, leave them some privacy.

I went to my room and even though I thought I wouldn't be able to close my eyes for a long time, I was asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

* * *

The next time I entered the sick room, the scene hadn't changed much. Aramis had obviously finished his work, but he was still there, as were Athos and Porthos. They were all sitting on stools around d'Artagnan's bed, Athos and Aramis on either side of his head, Porthos at his feet.

The silence was the loudest one I had ever heard.

I carefully stepped into the room and quietly closed the door behind me. Even though I was extremely cautious when I sat down on the last remaining chair, it still creaked and d'Artagnan stirred. Three heated pairs of eyes were on me instantly. I blushed.

"Could you keep it down?" Porthos whispered harshly. "'is sleep is hard enough as it is."

Aramis laid a calming hand on his friend's arm. "What he's trying to say is that we have to be quiet."

I nodded and looked down to the ground.

The silence continued. The men appeared even more tired than they had before, the shadows under their eyes darker and their faces paler than ever. But they didn't look like they were going to go to sleep anytime soon. If anything, they looked like they were preparing to wait forever, or at least as long as it took to see their friend alive and well again.

He was resting. He was dead to the world. There was nothing the remaining three Musketeers could do for him; there was nothing he could do for them. And yet they were ready to wait forever if it proved necessary.

I subtly cleared my throat. "Listen, I was wondering –"

Athos threw me a glare and Porthos shushed me immediately. Aramis got up from his chair, slowly like an old man would get up from his death bed, and gestured to the door. I got the hint and followed him out of the room.

Once we were far enough away not to disturb the sleeping patient, Aramis washed a hand down his face and looked at me. "You have to excuse my friends; we're all tired and more than a little on edge. We haven't slept for more than a day, so I hope you can understand why we are a little irritable."

I nodded forcefully. "Of course. I understand completely."

He sighed. "What did you want to say?"

"I wanted to tell you that there are two more beds you can use if you want to lie down. One of you could stay and watch –"

He lifted a hand and shook his head. "That is a very kind offer, but I am going to have to decline, thank you."

"But you are tired. And he's _sleeping_ ; you can't help him now."

Aramis smiled the saddest smile I had ever seen. I frowned and studied him. The corners of his lips were turned upwards, but they were _drooping_ at the same time. How that was possible, I had no idea. There were little dimples in his cheeks, dimples that would normally suggest kindness and joy, but his eyes were glassy and cool. Tired, but not only that. _Exhausted, scared, sad. Scared, scared, scared_ in an endless loop.

A simple smile wasn't supposed to be that meaningful.

"He's helping us," Aramis revealed in a whisper.

"D'Artagnan? How?"

"By breathing."

I tried to hold his gaze but quickly found it impossible, so I turned my eyes to the ground. I didn't exactly know what I was supposed to say. Aramis's statement would have sounded ridiculous, silly out of another person's mouth; it would have sounded like a worn-out cliché, like one of those sweet things no one ever means. But Aramis said it with such conviction that it was simply _true_ and I couldn't argue.

Something bothered me, but I couldn't put my finger on it.

"Do you think he will help me too?"

Aramis looked at me, surprised. His mouth twitched for the shortest of moments. "You can come with me and see."

I nodded and followed him back into the quiet room.

We were immediately greeted by Athos who had just shot up from his chair. "Aramis," he said harshly. "He's warm."

"Huh?"

"He's _warm,_ Aramis, and getting warmer. What if –"

He didn't get farther than that, because the medic was already rushing to the bed. He laid a light hand on D'Artagnan's brow and cursed. "When did this happen?"

"I don' –"

"Doesn't matter." Aramis threw back the blankets and pushed d'Artagnan's shirt up. The bandages were still in place, but already stained a deep red. "Dios mío," Aramis muttered, then peeled the cloth away and poked at the wound.

"Ow," d'Artagnan muttered sleepily. His eyelids fluttered.

"Hey, d'Artagnan, how are you feeling?" Aramis asked without looking up from the wound. D'Artagan inhaled a deep breath.

"Armais, _stop_ poking – ah! – _me_!"

No one answered. Porthos had moved to d'Artagnan's head and was now comfortingly stroking the long, dark hair, while Athos was still standing at the door, his gaze plastered on d'Artagnan, but his eyes seemingly staring at something much more distant.

Aramis pushed a few more spots. The tension grew and became a living thing; it was powerful and strong and I knew it was going to drive us all mad sooner rather than later.

"What the hell is _going on_?" d'Artagnan muttered, but he was ignored again. Then, Aramis took in a sharp breath and let it out. He washed a hand down his face.

"Aramis. TALK!" Porthos raged.

"He's fine." The medic breathed. "He's fine. I can't see any signs of infection. The fever is probably only an aftereffect of the trauma."

There was a collective sigh and the tension flew out the window and spilled onto the street, leaving the air in our little room fresher, cooler and more breathable.

"Told you … about … a hundred times," d'Artagnan breathed from the bed, already halfway asleep again. Porthos smiled and bowed down low over his face.

"What?"

"'m … _fine._ "

Aramis, who was already redoing the bandages, chuckled. But Athos didn't. He stood still for a few seconds longer, then silently turned around and left the room, letting the door shut closed behind him with a bang. D'Artagnan all but jumped at the sound and looked around, disoriented. Aramis muttered something and Porthos glared at where the fourth Musketeer had been standing only moments ago.

"Athos," d'Artagnan whispered, looking as if he was actually thinking of getting up. Before Porthos could stop the foolishness, the wound did the work for him, and d'Artagnan dropped back down into the pillows with a hearty groan. He was obviously in too much pain to talk, but he looked at the burly Musketeer pleadingly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll go after him."

Porthos got up and ran out of the room.

* * *

Porthos and Athos possessed loud voices and they knew how to shout. As a consequence, everyone in the house was a witness to their conversation.

"I _know_ , Porthos, I know!" Athos screamed.

"Then why are you acting this way?!"

"Don't you get it?! _I_ sent him into that cave! _I_ sent him in there, _alone!_ That was _me!_ So stop telling me that –"

"It wasn't your fault!" Porthos retaliated. "D'Artagnan will tell you the same thing!"

"I know he will! He will because he's that kind of person!"

"NO! He will tell you that because it's the _truth,_ Athos! Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and get back in there! He needs you!"

"Not … his fault," d'Artagnan breathed from the bed, his eyes already halfway closed, but his spirit fighting sleep with all the energy it could still muster.

"We know that, d'Artagnan," Aramis reassured. "We just need to convince Athos, that's all."

"Not … his …"

"Sh. Sh. Sleep, d'Artagnan, it's all fine."

" _No …_ "

"NOW!" Porthos's voice yelled from the other room. D'Artagnan flinched.

Outside, clouds were darkening the sky. How appropriate.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey, you guys! This is the last chapter of this short little story. Though I am thinking about writing a sequel, because this was really fun. Anyway, thanks for all the reviews and the constant support, and I hope you enjoy this last chapter!**

* * *

It took a while for things between the Musketeers to get back to normal. It took even longer for d'Artagnan to show any signs of recovery.

The first three days were the worst. His fever climbed and then reamined dangerously high. Aramis checked and rechecked the wound for infection, and even though he continuously reassured everyone that nothing had changed, we were still slowly but surely getting worried.

The fever started sinking on the fourth day. D'Artagnan woke up in the evening, ate a full plate of broth and drank a glass of water. He slept through the night and his fever broke the next morning.

A week after the battle, the young Musketeer was already able to sit up in bed and stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time. He talked with his friends, asked them questions and gave answers. They joked around and d'Artagnan could finally participate, which added another frequency to the laughter and made it sound a lot more harmonious.

I liked to listen to their banter, even though I sometimes felt like an intruder. But their talks were entertaining and funny and laced with a continuous streak of friendship. I got to know them better, see even more of their characters, witness them in a situation where they could leave their uniforms aside and simply be themselves. It was a rewarding experience.

It didn't take long for d'Artagnan to express the wish to go outside, but Aramis quickly informed him that he wouldn't be able to leave the bed for at least another few days, which dampened the young Musketeer's mood extensively. He decided to get back to sleep immediately after that and more or less pouted for the rest of the morning.

That evening, there was a knock on the door. D'Artagnan was sleeping, but his head rolled on the pillow at the sound. Porthos sighed and went to see who it was.

Andre, our neighbour, was standing outside our room.

"And who are you?" Porthos inquired gruffly. I shot up from my chair and joined the big Musketeer at the door.

" _Andre?_ What are you doing here?"

Porthos looked at me. "You know 'im?"

"Yes." I nodded. "He's our neighbour."

The Musketeer turned back to the newcomer, obviously content with my explanation. "State your business."

"Ahm ..." Andre seemed to shrink under the calculating gaze of the huge man. He blushed and looked at the ground. "I need to speak to d'Artagnan."

"'e's sleeping right now. I can take a message, though."

"No. No, I need to do it. Please."

"So you suggest I wake 'im up, even though 'e needs his rest, just so that you can talk to 'im _right now_?" Porthos snorted. "What is it you want to say, anyway?"

The boy looked to the ground again. His feet shuffled uncertainly over the floor. His body swayed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, and he looked like a child being scolded by his parent. A Musketeer's presence could do that to you, I supposed.

"Well? I 'aven't got all day, you know."

Andre cleared his throat. "Back there in the cave …"

"Yeah?"

"I want to apologise. I was kind of mean to him. Said some things."

Porthos looked at the boy with quirked eyebrows. "You _said some things_?"

" _Yes._ "

"Well, then you needn't worry," the Musketeer dismissed, looking about ready to shut the door in Andre's face. "'e's already forgiven you for it."

"Sorry?"

"'e has forgiven you. Go 'ome. Stop worrying."

Andre looked speechless, which was a weird sight since he was rarely ever silent in my presence. His mouth opened and closed, but no word left his lips. He reminded me of a fish on dry land.

"I said go," Porthos urged again. "Leave. D'Artagnan needs 'is rest."

"But …"

"Look, whatever you said to 'im, 'e's had worse."

"I … I asked him if he was even a _Musketeer._ "

"'e's 'ad 'is fair share of that. Trust me, 'e probably doesn't even remember what you said."

"But _I_ do. And now that he has saved Madame Dupin, I can't stop thinking about it."

"So you're actually doing this for yourself?" Porthos concluded forcefully, his patience waning into nothingness.

"Well …"

"Oh, let him be, Porthos," Aramis said from behind. "Might as well let him in. We'll have to wake d'Artagnan soon anyway."

" … _Fine._ " Porthos grudgingly stepped aside and let Andre enter. The boy hesitated for a full five seconds before he dared move into the room. Deciding that he desperately needed some sort of support, I smiled at him encouragingly.

His eyes roamed over the interior of the room and finally landed on the sleeping form of d'Artagnan, where they stilled. His face hardened, his lips white. He took a tentative step toward the bed, but Athos's glare seemed incentive enough for him to stop dead in his tracks, uncertain of what to do.

"He looks horrible," Andre whispered.

Aramis chuckled bitterly. "You would, too, if you had had a dagger in your gut not a week ago."

"I suppose." Andre sighed. "I have something for him."

"You brought him a _present_?" Porthos marvelled.

Andre shrugged. "I felt bad." He pulled a little flask out of his right pocket and placed it carefully in Aramis's hand. "It is my mother's recipe. She swears it can heal anything. I am not so sure about that, but it helps pretty well with pain. Just in case you need it."

Aramis bowed his head. "Thank you, that is very kind of you."

"It's the least I can do."

"Well, let me wake him up, then." Aramis moved to d'Artagnan's head and started murmuring quiet nothings no one could make out. But it seemed to work, because d'Artagnan's eyes suddenly flew open.

" _What,_ Aramis? If you've woken me again just so that you can push _two bloody spoons_ of that broth into my mouth, I swear I'm gonna –"

"You have a visitor.

D'Artagnan's expressin changed immediately. "Huh?" His eyes roamed around and settled on Andre. "Oh. Hello." He tried to straighten up in the bed and slapped Athos's hand away when the older Musketeer wanted to help. "I know you, right?"

"Yeah," Andre answered shyly. "We were in the cave together."

"Right."

"I just wanted to … well, I just wanted to apologise."

D'Artagnan's eyebrows wandered in the direction of his sweaty hair. "For what?"

"For questioning you."

"Oh." The young Musketeer bit his lip musingly, then looked at his friends suspiciously. "Has one of you put him up to this?"

"What do you mean?" Porthos asked innocently.

"Has one of you told him that he has to apologise to me or something?"

Porthos lifted his hands. "Hey, _I_ told him not to bother. But he wouldn't listen."

D'Artagnan glared at Aramis.

"Don't look at _me_. Do you really think I would do something like that?"

" _Yes,_ " three voices said in unison. Aramis changed his expression to one of mock hurt.

"Well, I didn't."

Andre finally found the courage to speak up. "No, no, this was my idea." D'Artagnan's attention was back on him. "In that cave, I questioned your abilities, and the next thing you did was save Madame Dupin by sacrificing yourself. I couldn't stop thinking about what I'd done –"

"You've done nothing," d'Artagnan told him immediately, his voice stern and demanding. "But very well, if you want to hear it: you're forgiven."

Andre bowed his head. "Thank you. And you know, thank you for saving Madame Dupin."

With that, he sped out of the room. I couldn't really blame him for feeling confused after what he had encountered.

"Were we a little too hard on him?" Aramis mused, but d'Artagnan didn't pay him any mind. His eyes were on me. I raised my eyebrows in a silent question.

"I realised just now that I have never asked your name," the Musketeer explained, troubled. "No idea how that could have happened." He sighed. "Now, at least, I know your last name. Dupin. Mademoiselle Dupin."

I laughed. "Call me Marianne."

"It's nice to meet you, Marianne."

* * *

The Musketeers left a week later.

The last meal we shared was a pretty silent occasion. D'Artagnan was finally well enough to join us at the table in the dining room, but he was obviously exhausted and didn't talk much. Neither did the others. We ate our soup and broth, but the injured soldier fell asleep in the middle of the meal and with that, dinner was over.

The next morning, we said our goodbyes. All of the four Musketeers thanked Mother and Father excessively, then moved on to me. I nodded at Athos and shook Aramis's hand. I was about to do the same with Porthos, but the big man looked at my outstretched palm, then glanced at my face and let a mirthful grin spread over his face. Without any warning, he threw his strong arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace.

Everyone laughed and if I re-emerged from the hug with deeply red cheeks, nobody commented on it.

D'Artagnan was the last to say goodbye. He smiled at me kindly and thanked me again for the hospitality (even though I'd had nothing to do with it, really.) In the nervousness of the moment, I forgot to thank him for saving my mother's life in turn, but I don't think he minded all that much. He was more the generous, don't-give-me-anything-in-return kind of man; he liked to help, but liked it much less when people noticed and started acting grateful.

Before he stepped back and away from me, he quickly leaned down to rest his soft lips against my ear, and whispered, "Whatever you need, whenever you need it. Just say the word." Then his presence was gone and I felt colder all of a sudden.

The sun was barely just climbing over the horizon as the four Musketeers mounted their horses and rode off. Mother, Father, Marie and I didn't go inside; we stayed where we were and watched the riders as they slowly moved away. They looked mighty and powerful, like gods who had come to live among us. They looked unearthly and it was hard to believe that only two weeks before, one of them had been on the brink of death. The concept of perishing shouldn't exist for creatures like these.

We only went back into the house when the shadows at the edge of the forest swallowed the mighty figures of the men who had saved us.


End file.
